“In that case,” said Nathan, “if thee consents to the same; I will get up behind thee, and so pass over dry-shod; for the feel of wet leather-breeches is quite uncomfortable.”

This proposal, being reasonable enough, was readily acceded to, and Nathan was in the act of climbing to the crupper of Dodge’s horse, when little Peter began to manifest a prudent desire to pass the ford dry-shod also, by pawing at his master’s heels, and beseeching his notice with sundry low but expressive whinings.  Such, at least, was the interpretation which Roland, who perceived the animal’s motions, was inclined to put upon them.  He was, therefore, not a little surprised when Nathan, starting from the stirrup into which he had climbed, leaped again to the ground, staring around him from right to left with every appearance of alarm.

“Right, Peter!” he at last muttered, fixing his eye upon the further bank of the river, a dark mass of hill and forest that rose in dim relief against the clouded sky, overshadowing the whole stream, which lay like a pitchy abyss betwixt it and the travellers,—­“right, Peter! thee eyes is as good as thee nose—­thee is determined the poor women shall not be murdered!”

“What is it you see?” demanded Forrester, “and why do you talk of murdering?”

“Speak low, and look across the river,” whispered the guide, in reply; “does thee see the light glimmering among the rocks by the roadside?”

“I see neither rocks nor road—­all is to my eyes confused blackness; and as for a light, I see nothing—­stay!  No; ’tis the gleam of a fire-fly.”

“The gleam of a fire-fly!” murmured Nathan, with tones that seemed to mingle wonder and derision with feelings of a much more serious character; “it is such a fire-fly as might burn a house, or roast a living captive at the stake:—­it is a brand in the hands of a ’camping Shawnee!  Look, friend, he is blowing it into a flame; and presently thee will see the whole bank around it in a glow.”

It was even as Nathan said.  Almost while he was yet speaking, the light, which all now clearly beheld, at first a point as small and faint as the spark of a lampyris, and then a star scarce bigger or brighter than the torch of a jack-o’-lantern, suddenly grew in magnitude, projecting a long and lance-like, though broken, reflection over the wheeling current, and then as suddenly shot into a bright and ruddy blaze, illumining hill and river, and even the anxious countenances of the travellers.  At the same time, a dark figure, as of a man engaged feeding the flame with fresh fuel, was plainly seen twice or thrice to pass before it.  How many others, his comrades, might be watching its increasing blaze, or preparing for their wild slumbers, among the rocks and bushes where it was kindled, it was impossible to divine.  The sight of the fire itself in such a solitary spot, and under such circumstances, even if no attendant had been seen by it, would have been enough to alarm the travellers, and compel the conviction that their enemies had not forgotten to station a force at this neglected ford, as well as at the other more frequented one above, and thus to deprive them of the last hope of escape.